Still saying goodbye

by little red pen

Today another year ticks over: four years since my mother died. She was too young, it was too quick, we still need her. One of my boys doesn’t know her, and the other only remembers snippets: a packet of prunes in the fridge, playing outside with the hose, someone who always had time for him. But she’s in them nonetheless. The Cat is drawn to the squidginess of my stomach in a way that only a child who had known the warmth and comfort of a cuddle with my mother could be, and the Rabbit, well, he only has to turn his face to me and she’s right there. There in his eyes, and in the tilt of his mouth too.

I don’t quite know what to do with a lifetime without her, without the chance to talk things out with her, the big stuff, the silly, the gossip, without her hands, without her bread and her marmalade. I’m not even sure what to do without that funny salmon mousse thing she always made for Christmas. I’ll never make it myself, but I’d eat it tonight. With nothing but thanks.